CM: 100 Word Challenge
by SeverinadeStrango
Summary: 100 short stories featuring the characters of "Common Motives", each inspired by a single word. This will likely be updated daily.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the first chapter of the pirate101 100-word challenge that I have discovered via the wonderful KamenRiderTanatos :D  
**

**It will feature my dearly beloved array of characters from "Common Motives", and will likely be updated daily :)**

**Enjoy!**

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**1. Beginning**

"_Miss Underhill!" _

It was as if the room had then dropped twenty degrees, and Sydney shivered as she mentally forced herself out of her daydreams and back to reality.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Did you _hear _my question, or were you off in your own silly little world of make believe?"

Sydney had to fight to keep the color from rising to her cheeks as her fingers absentmindedly toyed with the olive green folds of the uncomfortable silk dress.

Of _course _I didn't hear your question, she wanted to say, I wasn't listening to your boring _drone. _But, naturally, the forced - good mannerism of her upbringing would not let her voice this, and it was stuffed down inside of her head.

"I heard you, Ma'am."

Her tutor, a stern Marleybonian woman in her late thirties with wrinkles that had appeared on her face at much too early of an age, scoffed, obviously not having believed a word of what the ten – year – old had said.

"I'll ask you _one more time – _have you memorized your vocabulary?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Sydney replied, her pale cheeks flushing, partly in humiliation for being talked down to in such a way, and partially in anger – but not anger at her tutor.

She was angry because just outside the window, within range of her sight and hearing, she could see children playing.

Children of her age – ten, eleven years old, happily running back and forth through the cobblestone roads, running after each other in some sort of _obscure – _one of the words which she had been required to know – chase game. Yet, as basic as it seemed, she envied them, for she would have given anything to be any_where_ but _here, _in this dull, heavy – feeling room in the Underhill manor, cornered by a woman that she did not even know the name of.

It was funny, Sydney thought, how she didn't even know her name. But then again, it was hardly necessary – even if her name _had _been known, she would still call her "Ma'am," regardless.

"I will find out if what you say is true."

A clicking noise as the woman adjusted her spectacles, and the rustling of fabric as she crossed her arms, taking a step closer to the grey – eyed girl.

"Define _malevolent." _

"Malevolent - having or showing a wish to do evil to others," The girl all but spat as she recited the definition back to her perfectly.

"_Injunction." _

"Injunction – an authoritative warning or order."

"_Lucid."_

"Lucid – expressed clearly or easy to understand."

At this, her tutor seemed slightly satisfied (or shocked, Sydney really could not tell the two emotions apart when it came to this particular individual) and stepped back, giving Sydney a momentary sense of relief.

"It appears your claims are correct, Miss Underhill," she said, pinning Sydney down with her gaze, just as Sydney had a habit of doing to others, and the two ensued in what seemed like a subtle staring contest.

In the end, Sydney had emerged as the victor – her teacher had broken the stare to glance at the pendulum clock that was hanging on the wall behind the girl's head.

"And I do believe that your session is finished."

No goodbye, no words of approval at her memorization, no encouragement. Instead, she simply walked out of the door, pointed nose poised in the air, her heeled shoes making crisp clicks as she exited the manor.

Silence.

Sydney had not wished for silence – she wanted to scream, but her parents would scold her for acting in such an _unrefined manner. _

_God, _she wanted to scream, she wanted to pull at her black locks of hair until the artificially pressed curls refused to hold their shape anymore, she wanted to rip the olive – colored silk off of the suffocating hoop skirt, and she dared not even give a _thought_ to the corset that had been pulled _too too tight _around her waist –

However, she was then forced to abandon yet another train of thought as the massive grandfather clock in the main hall of the manor struck _three_ and sent her running as fast as she could, not _daring _to let the sharp heels of her shoes hit the floor, else her mother discovered she was _running inside the manor, _and yet she _had _to go fast, to the drawing room in the West Wing, where the grand piano was located.

She had just _barely _made it in time, under a minute, before her mother would notice the absence of the sound of running scales filling the interior of the manor, and rushed to arrange her skirts about her as she seated herself on the bench before the instrument, immediately placing her hands on the ivory keys and beginning what would then continue to be another two – hour confinement that was now a regular part of her daily routine.

It became so _regular, _so _boring, _so agonizingly _boring, _that she feared, one day, that she would _combust. _

_Combust – to spontaneously be consumed by fire. _

_That's an interesting word_, she thought, and for the first time in what must have been several days, the ten – year – old girl smiled.

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**Hope you enjoyed! I've never really written about Sydney's history before, so this was an interesting experience for me. I'll definitely try and go through the entire list, so follow and REVIEW!**

** - Severina**


	2. Chapter 2

**2. Obsession**

Hunter saw it all.

Of course he did.

He never had missed, and never would miss an opportunity to see the Armada clockworks get mercilessly beaten into the ground.

So _of course _he had seen that tiny, isolated, abandoned squadron of ten appear out of the shadows and get shot down almost instantly by the island's enormous sleeping militia.

And _of course _he had seen that one musketeer slink back into the shadows. Unnoticed, but not by him.

Smart, but not invincible, Hunter thought, shaking his head in amusement and smirking to himself before picking up his staff and stalking out the door, heading into the alleys.

The alleyways of Skull Island were, collectively, a giant, massive maze that snaked throughout the entirety of the land. Once one was in, there were only five ways out, one of them conveniently being less than five minute's distance away from the Chamberlain manor.

In addition, as if to add a cruel amount to his advantage, this entrance also was the closest to the location where he had seen the ambush on the Armada musketeer squadron – and if his logic was correct, the single remaining marksman would be somewhere relatively close to this particular alleyway entrance.

Pressed against the wall, staff in one hand and breath held fast, as to ensure that he would not be able to produce a single sound that would impede his hearing, the male witchdoctor listened, he listened for any _trace _of that telltale sound –

_There. _

The dampened rotating of hundreds of thousands of gears, some large, some small, from somewhere behind him, and without hesitation, he moved, turning the corner and flattening himself against the wall once again.

And just in time as well.

Sure enough, the witchdoctor's estimations had been correct.

Roughly around fifteen seconds later, the Armada marksman silently walked right past the corner behind which Hunter hid, his two white – gloved hands warily keeping his rifle pointed in front of him.

_Now. _

Hunter lunged for him.

It was quite simple to the witchdoctor – he slid a hand over the Clockwork's mouth, muffling the small sounds of alarm as he hooked an arm around his waist and dragged the soldier backwards.

However, the marksman refused to go without a fight.

The second he had been seized, the clockwork had attempted to aim the gun directly at Hunter's head, and he had twisted wildly, desperately trying to escape his captor's grip after discovering that the witchdoctor had disarmed him and grabbed onto him faster than he could have predicted.

Slamming him into the stone walls of the alleyway, Hunter wrapped his other hand around the clockwork's throat, pulling him away from the wall only to slam him backwards relentlessly, repeating the motion until the marksman had lost all sense of balance and all but collapsed against the witchdoctor, still save for the periodical slight twitch as he struggled to regain his sense of direction – an attempt which, naturally, was to no avail.

Hunter relaxed his grip on the soldier then, not wanting him dead _quite _yet, and lifted his unmoving frame, turning to his right and starting back towards the manor.

_Perfectly, _he thought, allowing the feeling of satisfaction to wash over him, _it had gone perfectly, just as expected. _

For tonight, he knew – there was no room for imperfection – it was Dangler's birthday.

Dangler, his goddess, his mistress, his queen – sadly unaware of her own perfection. Yet, in a strange way, that only seemed to add to her beauty.

As he walked, he glanced down at the defeated – and oddly _delicate _marionette soldier, unmoving, unresponsive – at least for the time being.

_Excellent, _he thought, looking towards the many lights of the manor and allowing himself to smile.

_Dangler does love such fragile things. _

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Dangler returned to the manor late that night, although Hunter was not particularly surprised.

It was not exactly an _uncommon _occurrence, given that she often lurked in the caves of Skull Island during the day, amusing herself in various ways, whether that was scaring young trainees of the Resistance silly or having a breath – holding contest with herself – whatever suited her fancy at that particular moment.

She was a strange girl – nothing ever seemed to hold her attention for very long, and she was always seeking fun or entertainment as if it was as vital to her survival as water or oxygen.

However, when she _did _return, she made as grand of an entrance as ever, flinging the door open and practically _spinning _in, the folds of her skirt flying around her voluptuously curved figure in a tornado of black silk as the door slammed shut behind her, an exhilarated expression on her face, the cause of it unknown.

Placing both of his hands on her shoulders, Hunter laughed at her dizzy expression as the vertigo finally caught up with her and kissed her once, on the top of her forehead.

"Welcome home, _milady." _

She let out a dark, low chuckle, the gravity of the sound seeming to weigh the very air down.

"I brought something for you today…"

The woman's arched eyebrows shot up in curiosity.

"_Really, _now…? And what might _that _be?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to close your eyes first…" He smirked slyly, watching as she placed her hands over her eyes before gently gripping her wrist and leading her, across the main room and down the steep staircase that led to the lower dungeons, causing her anticipation to visibly build as he finally slowed the both of them to a stop just outside one of the doors, which was pushed open with an ominous (and to some degree, obnoxious) squeaking noises as the hinges swung.

The marksman was still there, splayed out on the ground where Hunter had left him, his slim wrists tied behind his back.

The witchdoctor then proceeded to do the one thing that he would end up regretting for as long as he lived.

"All right, Dangler…_open your eyes._"

And she did not react in _quite _the way he had wanted her to – she was supposed to take on that possessive, menacing grin, the one that controlled and the one that inspired fear, as she whispered and murmured of the thousand terrible deaths that would befall this "clockwork fiend", and she would laugh loudly about how his frame would _absolutely give out _underneath her overwhelming ability to cause pain, regardless of whether the recipient was capable of feeling it or not.

No, she did none of that, and Hunter felt none of the triumph that he had fabricated and imagined as he wound through the alleyways, re-tracing the path in which he had come through, carrying the marionette as if he was the prey that would be fed to Dangler, the ravenous, wrathful lioness with a raging, yet controlled hunger.

Instead, she had left his side in a heartbeat – she had shaken his hands off of her shoulders as if she was shrugging off a cape or a shawl without a second thought before rushing to the prone clockwork with hurried steps, sinking to her knees beside him and simply _staring in awe, _all thoughts of Hunter entirely forgotten, at least for the moment.

No glory, only dread.

_Only dread. _

"Such a…such a _perfect _thing…oh…"

It slithered, like a giant snake, down his throat and into his gut, where it proceeded to twist and turn to its unreachable satisfaction.

"_Beautiful…perfectly beautiful…where did you…"_

_Only dread._

"You know…I _love…perfect _things…."

_Only dread._

_Only ever dread._

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**I hope you enjoyed this little snippet of history behind Hunter - and, specifically, the initiating events of Dangler's obsession.**

**Review!**

** - Severina**


	3. Chapter 3

**3: Company**

_Misery loves company. _

She had heard that phrase _somewhere – _although _exactly _where, she could not pinpoint or even vaguely remember – but had not quite understood it until now.

And even _now, _it still perplexed her.

_Now, _as she stood in front of the shattered mirror that had been hanging on the wall of her cabin, pieces of broken glass littering the ground around her feet, her bleeding hand clenched into a firm fist.

She was miserable, quite miserable –

And yet, despite what that phrase had claimed, she was certain that the company of another was the _last _thing that she wanted – God _forbid _Samantha or Jewel were to see her like this.

"Commander, it appears that you are bleeding – "

"Oh, REALLY?!" Sydney shrieked, spinning around to face Quintus, her facial features contorted into an animalistic expression of what the clockwork had learned to identify as _rage. _

"Really? _Really?_" She scoffed, bringing her bloodstained hand to her heart in a sarcastic display of shock, "You think that I haven't _noticed?!" _

"There is no doubt that you were aware, Commander. It is just that you did not seem to be doing anything to prevent it."

_That is true, _Sydney mentally admitted, some of her anger miraculously dispelling for the time being at knowing that her denial to do so was her own conscious decision and not a fogged decision, rushed and hurried by the violent frenzy that seemed to boil endlessly inside of her gut.

However, that had not exactly been an unexpected occurrence – it was like using a bucket to catch water dripping from a leak in a roof. It was only a temporary solution, and eventually, the bucket would, inevitably, fill and overflow.

That was, unless it was emptied. And even_ if_ the bucket was emptied regularly, there would still always be those few moments in which the leak dripped, unregulated and unrelenting, onto the now – exposed floorboards.

This was one of those moments in which she had neglected to empty her metaphorical bucket for far too long, and was now paying the price for it.

The several cuts on her fist – across the knuckles of her fingers from where she had driven her fist into the mirror in rage and on the tips of her fingers from where she had clawed the shattered shards out of the circular frame – would heal, and like the rest, they would serve as a tally of all the times that she had, for the sake of metaphorical consistency, overflowed.

Like a prisoner tallied the number of months on his cell wall, Sydney had tallied on the walls of her own cell – as proven by the lines the criss – crossed over her upper arms, over her thighs, over her shoulders – where her crew would never see, where they never stood a chance of being revealed.

_Misery loves company. _

The phrase meant that those in misery had a tendency to drag those around them down with them – down to the depths, where they would not likely return.

She could _not _allow that – not now, while her numbers were already few and while she still required their aid – not for now.

So instead, she would mark her own months on the walls of her own cell – her cell being her body.

She did not even look at it as her own anymore, she despised it so, she was infuriated at such a large amount of imperfection.

There was everything wrong about it in everywhichway she looked – this part too large, this part too weak – she envied Samantha, who was built without an Achilles' heel, or Jewel, who was so light and lithe that she did not require muscle, for when she fought, she was _Nimble, _she was _weightless_ – by God, she _flew. _

_Misery loves company. _

However, regardless of her hatred for her own frame and structure, she had vowed to herself – sworn to herself – that she would never turn to another for aid. There was mixed logic behind this, but like her loathing of her vessel, it was internal – and as long as the result was desirable, that was all that truly mattered.

_Why must you remain independent?_

Because I am a Captain.

_Oh?_

A leading figure. A role model, built and made from pure strength – any weakness is simply not allowed to be visible, you see.

_But that is where you are wrong – for here, you state that you do this for others – for your crew, am I correct?_

Is that not my duty?

_Listen to yourself! They are not worthy of such effort – no. You do this for yourself, and yourself alone. _

And it just so happens to benefit them.

_But you are still partially correct – you see, you cannot show yourself weakness, either – the knowledge of its presence will simply crush you, and any chances of your success. _

Sydney knew this conversation, for she had it with herself far too often – yet, whatever the result, her actions always ended up the same.

Same objective, each with a different cause – it was _terribly _confusing to keep track of.

_Misery loves company. _

Obviously, Sydney knew, she could not simply _banish _such misery – she was a human woman, it was absolutely impossible – therefore making it also impossible to simply refuse to acknowledge its existence, like she _should_, like her _duty commanded her, _whether that was to herself or to her crewmates.

She would not bring them down with her.

This fight was hers – hers and hers alone. She and Samantha and Jewel were tied to each other with strings of glass – one point of hypertension and the entire array would simply shatter.

But it was still impossible to be ignored – misery did love company.

And she would be her own friend, her own conversational partner - Quintus himself did not deserve to be ruined by her own imperfection, yet the ties between her and her _human _crew were far too fragile.

So she would keep herself company, at least for the time being.

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**Here, have an angsty chapter in which Sydney plays tug - of - war with her own mind :3**

**Follow and Review! My thanks to every single one of you that have!**

** - Severina**


	4. Chapter 4

**Yay, the 100 word challenge is finally coming back to life!**

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**4: Dreams**

It was nearly midnight, perhaps past – and in the small cabin below the decks of _The Grand Fife_, the one just to the left of the staircase – Samantha Hawkins lay awake, blue eyes wide open.

She was slightly frustrated at herself for this: after all, sleep was essential for the health and strength of the human body.

Without proper health of both the mind and the physical form, it would be impossible for her to retain the near – inhuman strength that she had worked _so _hard to build for _such _a long time.

On the other hand, she did not want to go back.

Not back to that – that which only reminded her of what she did not have.

Samantha Hawkins _did not want _to dream.

It was like a bittersweet hell to her whenever she did – the visions taunting her in her own mind, inescapably, over and over and over again without relenting – and although she dreamed not of death or of disaster, it brought dread to her all the same.

Countless times, almost every time, her mind had been confronted with the vision of the grey – eyed, black – haired privateer, with her slightly – slouched torso and her firmly planted legs, creating the perfect image of her Captain, the privateer Sydney Underhill – but it was not the Sydney Underhill that was now so familiar to her.

There was no scowl on her face, no snarl that curled the corners of her lips, no dark circles under her eyes. Her cheekbones were not shadowed and her flesh was not greyish and sunken – rather, she looked unusually healthy.

And she _smiled, _as well. That was the worst part, the buccaneer had concluded, that was the worst part, for the smile only served to remind her of what she had no longer.

She vaguely remembered a time when Sydney smiled so, and it seemed so distant, so far off. The privateer had morphed into a different person now, and for the worse.

Back then, Sydney was the kind, welcoming teenage girl that had decided to show more compassion than expected after finding a stowaway buccaneer below the decks of the enormous black ship, which had visibly dominated any other ship that the blue – eyed girl had every seen.

Instead of engaging her in combat or growing furious at such a finding, she had extended a helping hand – an offer, per say, to finally live her potential as opposed to the life she was originally destined for.

Pulling in ships and tying them down, day after day, as an apprentice of the dockmaster of Skull Island, was what she owed her impossible strength to, but had she been forced to continue that for the rest of her life, Samantha would have gone mad.

It was a limiting job, and it held her back from what she was _truly _capable of doing – being a contributing agent of the Resistance.

Sydney had given her such an opportunity, and she had been ever grateful.

Samantha dreamed of that day, she re – lived that moment nightly, for she truly and dearly missed the Sydney Underhill that she had encountered on that day, before the privateer had turned sour and bitter, like a fruit gone rotten.

She often wondered _what _it was that had made her Captain's personality change so drastically – was it the added stress of finally breaking ties with the Resistance? Or perhaps the burden of supporting two other people in addition to herself?

_If there was a way to fix you, Sydney, _Samantha had often silently pleaded, _tell me. _

_Let me be useful for one time in my life. _

But no words would come from the privateer, and Samantha would be left to wallow in her own unending worry and her dreams of the past.

She wished she could reverse time, to when Sydney had been so full of optimism and motivation instead of exhaustion and irritation.

Such a leader did not deserve to be in such a condition, not with her kindness, not with her talent and ability. She should have her dreams fulfilled, Samantha believed, and her health in a constant optimal condition. It was like a sickness, some sort of _virus, _this onset of monotone and the sudden lack of all emotion, expression, and drive, and there was no cure in sight.

_Let me help you._

No, Sydney would silently reply, let me be. You would not dare, she would wordlessly say, to question my intent.

_But there is something wrong with you. _

This was not the future that the buccaneer had dreamed of when Sydney had first extended that hand several years ago, and it saddened her greatly.

It made her break a little, internally, although she would not _dare _to show it on her outer image, every time that she would see the Captain emerge from her cabin after yet another long, sleepless night, her torso unbalanced on her tired legs and her limp eyelids threatening to fall uncontrollably over her thoroughly – bloodshot eyes.

Sydney had been all that she could ever ask for, at first – welcoming, organized, structured, calm, supportive – and to have that wrenched away from her in the short span of a year's worth was almost unbearable.

_I dreamed of a sister._

Sometimes, Samantha would dare to compare it to a chronic disease of sorts.

_I dreamed of a friend._

She did not want to be useless anymore, not now, not when she had needed the privateer's support for the last several years of her life and was being given the opportunity to repay that debt.

It was her turn to be the stone wall now, to shield her Captain from the unavoidable, taxing bothers of daily life while she repaired herself, for she had gone without such repair for far, far too long.

But Sydney would turn her away – the privateer's stubborn pride would get in her way and take control of her mind. It seemed to be the only thing remaining of the woman that she had once known, that pride.

On most nights, Samantha dreamed that the rust had been removed from her idol, and that it shone with everlasting brightness once again.

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**And here we have a little backstory, as well as a look inside the mind of Samantha Hawkins.**

**Do review! I'd love to know what you think!**

** - Severina**


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